


The Importance of Transparency

by SheepOh



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John, Drinking, Drunk Sherlock, First Kiss, Fluffy Ending, Im sorry Mycroft, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Mycrofts nose as collateral damage, Parental Mrs. Hudson, Some Humor, Thank God for Molly Hooper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 07:10:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8153386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheepOh/pseuds/SheepOh
Summary: A drunken Sherlock babbles his emotional states in John's arms and Mycroft pays the price of John's emotional incapacities. Then Molly helps save the day.
 
  ''If it were only up to me... You'd never be hurt again. I know. I know. It's unrealistic but I can't help it'' John thought but didn't say.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [TidesAndMoons](http://tidesandmoons.tumblr.com/), as usual, for betaing and being a moral support.

Sherlock usually avoided getting drunk, especially on cases,unless it was necessary for it, as it was now. If he only faked drinking with that sailor, he would be discovered and all would be lost. The man had years and years of experience in getting people drunk to outwit them. That was partly how he had made his fortune with cards. He was good but not exceptional. His opponents were mostly just so drunk they did not even realize how badly they were doing.

So Sherlock found himself in a shabby little pub on the the docks drinking with and indulging him. He got spectacularly drunk, but still managed to register anything that could be useful and file it in his mind palace, somewhere he could analyze it, later, when he would be fit. Much, much, later.

He came home to an empty flat. John had told him where he was; out for a pint with friends, to his sister's, or somewhere. He didn't really remember, hadn't really been listening. He had been busy planning his night. The important part was that he was somewhere safe. That's all that mattered, really. John would no doubt tell him about it in the morning anyway.

He was feeling fuzzy and out of control. Thoughts, memories and emotions came jumbled together, without him being able to reign any in. The room was spinning. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to hide. He wanted to be heard. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to be held. He wanted John.

Frustrated, overwhelmed and his brain proving useless, Sherlock took the rare opportunity of having nothing better to do to go to sleep and let the drunkenness wear off.

He awoke sometime later, his mind still somewhat scrambled. He hadn't really slept, just nodded off a few times as the room spun unpleasantly. He got up and out of his room, annoyed, bumped in a nearby wall on his way to the fridge. He looked at its inside for a while didn't find anything he wanted and slammed its door shut. 

When he turned, he found himself facing a concerned John Watson he hadn't even realized was there.

''Sherlock? Are you drunk?''

''Obviously.'', he snorted.

John would normally get angry, as Sherlock had no reason to get pissy at him like that, but his expression told him he shouldn't. He didn't look well, and not in an ''I'm about to throw up'' way, but more in a ''something I do not understand is happening and it is confusing and hurts'' way.

''Right. You alright?''

''No. I don't know'', he swallowed, ''Why do people do this John? Why do they act like it's fun. It's not. I don't feel well...Like I'm going to explode.'', he made a gesture to his chest, tightening his fist over it, ''like I'll lose control over myself. I don't like it John.'' He swallowed again, more strained this time. ''I'm scared''

His features contorted as John's heart did. 

''C'mon. Let's sit down.'', he said leading him back through the hall then the open door of his room, an arm around his waist to supporting his weight.

They sat on the edge of the bed and he kept his grip around the detective who leaned on him, his face resting on the top of his shoulder. He just breathed there for a while and John thought he'd fallen asleep until he started hearing mumblings. His voice steadily grew loud enough for him to hear. He was talking about Serbia, about all the other countries he'd found himself in during those two forsaken years, about the physical hurt, about the emotional hurt, about the longing, about the helplessness, and about the hope and the sense of mission that had kept him going. 

Then he talked about the memories that had kept him going and about the sense of betrayal when he had come back, about the hurt, the longing and the helplessness that should have been gone, and about the small moments that had still kept him going. 

He talked and talked and talked, explaining his thoughts and opinions and feelings about it all, with a few occasional dry sobs, until he did fall asleep and John held him through it all, his heart constricting with every word of hurt, and guilt building in himself. It was long after he had fallen asleep and his muscles started cramping that he could finally let go of him to let him lie down to go to his own room for what little of the night was left.

 

# * * *

 

Sherlock woke the next morning with a headache like he hadn't had in years. He went to the kitchen where John was already reading the paper and eating breakfast. He groaned an answer to John's ''Good morning'' and flopped into the chair in front of him grumpily. A cup of tea was waiting for him, along with a very big glass of water and two aspirins. He swallowed everything quietly. John was acting as if it were any other morning, but Sherlock knew him enough to know it did not match how he felt. He was uncomfortable but trying his very best to hide it, so as not to also make Sherlock uncomfortable, he guessed. 

When John had said he wasn't good with ''that sort of thing'' he had meant it. He felt deeply for Sherlock and his aches. He ached with him, but didn't know how to deal with it. It would just build inside. He was touched that Sherlock had shared so much with him, even if he might not have meant to, but, now, the knowledge of Sherlock's hurt, past and present, was too much for him to properly deal with. He wanted to be the kind of friend who could console him and help him through but all he could manage was feel rage towards everyone and everything that had hurt him, including himself.

One of the specific target of that rage, of course, had to pay them a visit that very morning, showing up, unannounced and uninvited, in their living room.

He of course, knew nothing of the exact situation he was stepping in. 

''Mycroft what are you doing here?'', his younger brother had demanded in that particular annoyed tone he reserved only for him.

''Oh, just dropping by, to see how you are doing, making sure everything is still going well, without any regrettable incident,'' he remarked his tone growing harsher as he pointed a look at Sherlock.

''Oh for Christ sake, it was just a bit of alcohol and it was for a case!''

''You were drunk Sherlock. I saw you. I was worried. You do have a history of substance abuse'', he explained haughtily.

''Worried?'', he huffed, ''About me?''

''Of course I was, you are my brother. I ... care for you.''

This was certainly true. He did care for his younger brother, always had, no matter how insufferable he could be and how much trouble he could cause. In the end, he did try to see him in as less pain as possible, be it self inflicted or otherwise, but caring for Sherlock Holmes was not easy, especially not when you were (in his eyes) his nosey and overbearing brother. And try as he might, there were things Mycroft could not sacrifice, not even for his brother nor himself. One had to be detached about some things when one defended the security of one or more nations. This did not mean, however much he liked to pretend, that he didn't care and couldn't hurt, at least where it concerned his baby brother.

''Oh just like you cared back in Serbia?'', Sherlock scoffed.

''Wait. You knew about that?'', John, who had kept himself out of their conversation, suddenly asked, shifting the attention in his direction.

''Of course I knew, I had to.''

''And you didn't do anything? You let them hurt him?'', he barked. 

''You have to understand Dr. Watson that this was a highly sensitive mission. I couldn't risk jeopardising –''

John's reflex when angry had always been to punch things; tables, walls, lockers and, sometimes, people, in this specific case, Mycroft Holmes. He did it without thinking about it. It were as if his arm had had a mind of it's own but feeling exactly what all the rest of him had been feeling, for years, every time someone had hurt Sherlock. The fog of anger partially cleared his brain and he started thinking again, if not too clearly, as soon as his fist fell back to his side.

''Shit.'', was the only thing that slipped from his lips which sealed tight again. 

His face whitened as did his knuckles. His whole body was still quite tense and shook with anger. Of the two stunned Holmes, Sherlock recovered first, just in time to follow him as he retreated hastily to his room.

He closed the door behind them and waited, staring at John who let himself fall on the bed.

''Oh, god. Christ. Fuck. I-''

''You-''

''Yeah. Shit.''

''You punched him. Mycroft. In the face.''

''I did.'', John nodded.

''About time'' Sherlock smirked before bursting into laughter.

John stared for a second, a smile slowly creeping on his features, before joining enthusiastically.

''He was so stunned!'', he exclaimed.

''Oh god, I wish I could have taken a picture.''

''Oh that's a face I won't forget.''

''Hey who knows, maybe it'll help fix his nose a bit.'', Sherlock joked.

''I always thought it looked kind of strange...''

They let their laughter die bit by bit, gently smiling at each other.

John cleared his throat. 

''I'm sorry Sherlock. I really am. It's just...He's your brother! He should be looking after you, not hurting you! The others...They're idiots. They're blind. They don't know you, but if at least him could...I don't know. And after last night...'' He sighed. ''You shouldn't have to be hurt like that.''

''I don't need to be protected John. I'm not some fragile creature.''

''I know. You can take care of yourself, well, except for eating and sleeping'' he glanced at him playfully, smirking ''You can work through the pain and all. I just wish you didn't have to. You deserve better. If it were only up to me...'' _You'd never be hurt again. I know. I know. It's unrealistic but I can't help it_ , he thought but didn't say. He sighed, shaking his head once. '' When I know someone who could have protected you, saved you that, didn't, well, I get angry. I stop thinking. I lose my temper...You know how I am. '' He lowered his head and his voice as he said that last sentence.

''Yes.'', Sherlock murmured strangely touched and still trying to analyse all that had just been said.

''I-I just want to know you're good, happy.''

It felt as if there should have been another sentence after that one, as if an explanation had been left unvoiced, but something prevented the detective from prying for more so he simply answered ''So do I.'', quietly. Too much had already been said, too much exposed and neither men dared say more.

''We should get back. Check on him.'', John proposed, sounding uncertain.

He received no response, looking at Sherlock, he realized he probably didn't even know he was still there. 

The detective was completely frozen in place, blinking and frowning repeatedly. He heard John's receding footsteps as he was left on his own, then Mrs. Hudson voice as she scolded him, then nothing but the sound of John's voice in his head, his confession. But was it really a confession? A confession to what? To caring about him? John had said he was his best friend, wasn't that what best friends did, care about each other? But then there was also the untold, that last sentence that should have been there but had been deliberately kept silent. There was more to it, it seemed. A more that Sherlock was both excited and terrified at the idea of finding out.

 

# * * *

 

Hearing the fuss and the worrying silence that had ensued, and knowing for a fact they were not alone in their flat, Mrs Hudson had come up to check on her boys. 

''Yoo-hoo!'', she called but was only greeted by Mycroft who seemed struck in place.

Upon hearing her voice the older Holmes cursed inwardly and put on his most exasperated expression. He still turned towards her and remembered that insulting her for any reason might result in aggravating his already sensitive nose. 

''Oh lord! What happened here?'', she exclaimed when she saw the patterns of colours that had started appearing on his face.

''A simple accident, I'm sure.''

''Oh dear, did John do this? I heard yelling and he's got quite a temper. He's a good man on the inside he just has those little things he needs to work on, but don't we all? Though, something like this, it's more-'', she blabbered on.

Mycroft quickly decided this wasn't going anywhere and tuned her out, only watching her movements around the flat and planning missions concerning national and possibly international security instead. He saw her go to the kitchen, retrieve a bag of frozen peas from the fridge and then a towel from a drawer. She then wrapped the latter around the former and came back towards him, still yammering away. Before, he could even think to stop her or about whatever she thought she was doing, Mrs Hudson had shoved a bunch of tissues in his hand and lifted it to his nose as she held the wrapped frozen peas to the side of it.

Mycroft was in shock. He was being mothered, in his brother's very flat where he could burst back in at any moment to witness this horrifying scene. Luckily for him, John only made his reappearances while he was the only one holding anything to his face. He managed to take his leave with almost all of his pride intact. He didn't forget to cast a glare at everyone present and the furniture as to warn everyone and everything of the consequences reporting this to anybody could entail. Unfortunately, no one and nothing in that flat could feel in any way menaced by him.

 

''I won't apologize to him'', John said suddenly as Sherlock reappeared, all humor gone from his voice .

''I know''.

 

# * * *

 

Sherlock found himself reaching out to Molly Hooper. She was a scientist, she had experience with relationships and most of all she was the least likely to make fun of him for what he was about to ask. She had also shown a great understanding of him and had been of undeniable help in the past. 

''Molly?''he asked, watching her dissect a heart, ''You know John and I well, don't you?''

''I think so, yes'', she hesitated, confused as to where this was going.

''And you have experience with relationships and people, in general? At least more than I do. Correct?''

''Yes...''

''Good.''

A silence filled the room as Molly continued her task and left Sherlock some space, to see if he would prompt her further. As he tried to collect his thoughts and put them in words, she decided to help him and herself. 

''Sherlock, why are you asking me all this?''

''Well, I have somewhat of a mystery to solve, I think.''

''And it has to do with John, and relationships'', she inquired.

''Yes.''

''I see. Did..something...happen?''

A part of Molly always knew that Sherlock loved John, that he was in love with him, in the deepest sense of the expression, but she had truly seen it and made a decision to accept it when Sherlock came to her to help him save John, by endangering everything that, he, Sherlock, was. Even knowing that and believing that John must feel at least just a bit similarly, she also understood why Sherlock had never brought himself to say it, to anyone. She understood his fear and his pain.

''There was an event that stood out... He punched someone, for me. I think it was for me. That's what he seemed to be explaining afterwards.''

''He does have a way of getting in trouble for you doesn't he?''. She smiled fondly.

''Does he?''

''Well, there was that time he punched the chief super intendant, and let you kidnap him. Lestrade talked about it for days. And, well, he's always running off with you and after you, leaving everything behind, important or not...''

''Oh. Yes. That.''

Sherlock looked pensive now, and silence fell again for a moment. 

''Were you wondering how to ask him out?Is that why you want my help?''

''No!'', he defended himself.

''Oh sorry, I thought...''

An awkward silence ensued as Sherlock thought this over.

''Should I? Objectively, what are our hypotheses on his reaction?''

''You should. It's not right for you to hold all that in. You know it...weighs on you. I would know. And John, he cares for you. He would never want to hurt you. You'd have nothing to lose. He'll stay by your side, always, like this or as something else, but if you never ask, you'll never know, and you'll never let go. You'll keep on waiting, and hurting and it'll make you angry, bitter. Trust me. "

''I do, trust you.''

''Good. Then, if not for you,you should do it for him. You'll be fine.''

 

# * * *

 

Days of silence followed Sherlock's trip to St Bart's. He was thinking but not sulking. Whatever he was thinking about he made sure to do it always in John's presence. Every time, John came downstairs, Sherlock would come out of his room and sit with him, in the kitchen or the living room, according to where John himself was. Then he'd stay with him until the day would end and they'd both go back to their rooms, never uttering a word. John would deposit food and drinks in front of him and sometimes, when he'd look after paying attention to something else for a while, there'd be small bites and sips missing. Days flowed into each other and John kept on waiting for Sherlock to come out of his thoughts or for a case to drag him out of them.

In the end, Sherlock came out of it on his own. He suddenly sat up, planted both his feet on the floor and downed his tea.

''Yes. That's how we should proceed'', he declared.

''Sorry, what?'', John asked, putting his newspaper down.

''Mmh?''

''You said something, just now, you've been silent for days but you talked'', John explained grinning affectionately.

''Has it been days?''

''Yes''

''Well, I'm talking now. We need to discuss our relationship. I think that's what people do.''

''Okay...'' John was careful now, mindful of anything his body or words could communicate. he didn't want to inadvertently scare or insult Sherlock back into silence. This was important. He focused all of his attention on Sherlock, on listening to him and reading him.

''We have known each other for a long time. You know me, you know how I am. I am selfish and blind and rude and obnoxious and many more things alike. You've put up with me for a long time and that's a feat not everybody can achieve. We have been through a lot together and I put you through a lot. I know and I am sorry for all the times I could've hurt you.'', he sighs, ''There are a lot of things I said at your wedding and if you take Mary out of it, I promise none of it was a lie nor an exaggeration. That day was the worst of my life, but it was for you , what you needed, so I bore the pain. All I wanted and still want is your happiness. Never will I let you down and I still hope to be given the opportunity to prove that for a very long time still. If you'll let me. If you've forgiven my mistakes.''

John waited but no other words came from Sherlock, so he spoke.

''Sherlock...I do know you. You're all those things, true, but you're also wise, human, and so so worth it. I couldn't imagine my life without you. I mean, I had to live that reality for a while and it didn't work for me, but you came back. You saved me again. Of course, I've forgiven you, I told you so before and meant it, still mean it. I do want you, need you by my side for as long as you want it.'' He paused, letting Sherlock process this but he was stiff, frozen in place with his eyes tightly shut. ''Sherlock open your eyes. You're not looking at me. You're avoiding looking at me.'', John went to him, ''It's all good, I promise.''

Sherlock complied. John was in his space, holding his wrists lightly and smiling at him, the softest smile he'd ever seen on his features. When their eyes met, John offered him the plain, simple truth.

''I love you.''

Their lips met in a simple kiss. It was really just a touch of lips on lips but it conveyed the same plain, simple truth. They were in love. They knew it to be true for the both of them and knew it to be the guiding thread of the next chapters of their lives, their life, their collective one.


End file.
